


This is Where the World Drops Off

by sev313



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/sev313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon’s a member of the Night’s Watch. Robb’s Lord of Winterfell. When Robb visits Jon at the Wall, they have to get reacquainted each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Where the World Drops Off

**Author's Note:**

> Vague spoilers through “You Win or You Die,” but nothing specific.
> 
> This is my first GoT fic, so please forgive any imperfections in timing. Written for the prompt challenge at hbo_gotfiction (LJ) for the prompt "Robb visits Jon at the Wall"

Jon was never the climber that Bran was. However, he remembers many afternoons when he was young, climbing the walls around Winterfell with Robb beside him, Theon Greyjoy watching them from below with crossed arms. They would hide behind parapets, laughing and leaning against each other, drenched in sweat and happy in the summer sun.

It’s been many years since those easy, carefree days. Before Bran fell and Robb became a Lord in their father’s stead; before Jon went North and really _understood_ the words of his father’s house. They’re whispered everywhere here, at the dinner tables, behind closed doors at night when they’re huddled under blankets and furs, between the brothers black when they think no one else is around. _Winter is coming._ Stark words. His father’s words.

He has heard them all his life. Maester Luwin had tested him on them in lessons, Jory Cassel had repeated them over and over again while teaching Jon how to shoot a bow, and Theon had taunted him and Robb with them when the words sounded stupid and foolish against the hope of endless summer. They don’t sound stupid or foolish anymore.

Although Jon had never been the climber that Bran had been, he had always liked sitting atop the walls of Winterfell, sharing a pie that he and Robb had poached from the kitchens and pointing out into the distance at lands far South. He had always felt both small and powerful up there, as if he and Robb were meant to sit atop that wall and laugh and eat and be children forever. It’s different now. Fourteen years and the oath of the Black under his belt, sitting 800 feet in the air on a Wall made of ice and magic. There’s been talk of walkers and children and as Jon crouches above the fire in a desperate attempt to get feeling back into his fingertips, he understands those words for what they are, not so much a warning, but a fact. _Winter is coming._

Sitting atop the Wall is Jon’s favorite time of day. It’s cold, and a touch lonely, but up here Jon can dream about going out into the dark forests, about being a Ranger and a leader and finding his Uncle. He also dreams about Winterfell. Since Sam arrived, Jon’s felt a little less lonely. Pyp, Grenn, Sam – they’re all brothers to Jon now, chosen brothers. And they help, when he misses Bran and little Rickon. They even ease the pain of missing Arya, his little sister who he misses almost as much as anyone.

Ghost’s body tenses and Jon is shaken from his thoughts. He moves carefully to the edge of the Wall, peering over and seeing nothing. He feels Ghost brush lightly at his heels as the wolf herds him to the other side, the side facing South, to King’s Landing and Winterfell. Jon’s heart leaps into his chest in the hopes that this is Yoren, returning from King’s Landing with new recruits and news from his Lord Father. Perhaps Yoren had even stopped in Winterfell, and bears word from Bran or –

Jon’s breath freezes in his lungs as he covers his fire with snow and walks as fast as possible without slipping to the lift. Ghost is there ahead of him, impatient and glaring with red eyes accusing him of being slow and heavy footed and human. Jon ruffles the fur of his neck when he gets close enough, keeping his fingers tangled in soft, white fur as they take the impossibly long trip to the bottom. By the time they have come to a stop, Ghost is panting and pacing and as close to making a whimper as he has ever come to making any noise.

The minute the door opens, Ghost is gone, out of Jon’s hands and racing to the gates of Castle Black, Jon cursing at him and chasing at his heels. Jon assumes it’s the carcass of some animal that Yoren had killed along the way, a newly dead animal that Ghost could smell all the way from the top of the Wall, and Jon just barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes at his direwolf. As if he lets the wolf starve, as if Ghost isn’t always the best fed of all those who feast in Castle Black’s great hall.

“Ghost,” Jon calls and Ghost has never disobeyed him. This time, however, Ghost’s ears twitch, as if he’s _thinking_ about obeying, and then the wolf _chooses_ to ignore him. Jon is furious, his boots pounding against the snow, icy air chilling his lungs, words he doesn’t like to use writing themselves into nice strings of curses in his head.

There’s a flash of white as Ghost jumps and then Jon stops, so hard his toes ache.

He hadn’t hoped, hadn’t dreamed-

And yet, there he is. His brother, light of skin and hair, cheeks blushed red from the cold, furs wrapped tight against his neck and yet, when he turns to look at Ghost and beyond, at Jon himself, it is unmistakably his brother. Robb. The one Jon still can’t stop missing every damn second.

He wants to do something. Wants to go to Robb and warm him and laugh with him and share his breath like they were young boys again, but Jon’s sworn an oath to celibacy and honor and Robb’s taken up his sword as the Lord of Winterfell, so all they can do is watch as Ghost and Grey Wind greet each other with licks and nips and a good, solid roll in the snow. Jon aches and wants and, when he tares his eyes away from the wolves to look at Robb, he knows that Robb feels the same.

“Isn’t it your night on the Wall, Lord Snow?”

Jon has never hated Alliser Thorne as he does at this moment. And then Robb catches his eye and Jon can barely breathe at it all, so he just lowers his head and Jeor Mormont slaps him on the back with a great laugh.

“There is warm mead and cider in the hall. Let us give Lord Stark the welcome he deserves.”

It doesn’t go how Jon would have wanted it to go. Robb is given all the courtesies of his new title and Jon cannot but watch with the other recruits as Robb sits at the high table, with Jeor Mormont and Alliser Thorne and the other black brothers. Jon and the others have not yet earned a seat at the table, so they drink their cider and Pyp tells one of his stories, doing an impersonation of the serving wench who gave him his first pint, so vulgar and perfect that Sam and Grenn are half on the floor, clutching their chests in laughter.

“Come now, Jon, that was funny.”

Jon pulls his eyes to Sam, who’s looking at him with something much to akin to understanding, and Jon just shrugs. “I’ve heard better.”

“Oi, bastard, that’s one of my best.”

Jon waves him away, resting his chin in his hand and trying not to stare too hard at Robb at the high table. It’s warm in here, with the drinks and the fires blazing, and Robb has rid himself of his outer furs. He’s dressed in leather, the direwolf of House Stark emblazoned across his chest, and he looks strong and serious and every bit the Lord he has had to become. Jon wonders, sitting here in between Sam and Pyp, dressed in muted black furs, whether Robb could possibly think the same of him.

“Jon?” Jon looks at Sam apologetically, but this time Sam’s smile drops and he follows Jon’s gaze. “What do you think he’s doing here?”

Jon shrugs. “Come to see the Wall, I suspect.”

“Lord Mormont says it’s been years since the Lord of the North graced the Wall with a visit.” Grenn pipes in, and Jon ignores the jab at his father in favor of starring once again at Robb.

“Maybe something has happened? Your brother, the younger one, he had a fall, yeah?”

Jon glances at Pyp. “He woke up months ago. And Robb would have told me already if something was wrong.”

“You haven’t had a moment alone with him, have you?” Pyp asks and Sam elbows him, spilling both their mugs of cider.

In all the commotion that follows, no one notices as Jon slips out, Ghost at his heels. Jon lights his fire when he reaches his spot again, although, this time, he isn’t so content to be sitting on the Wall. His thoughts are jumbled and dark, wondering if, maybe, something awful _has_ happened. Maybe Bran had a relapse, or maybe one of the girls made a wrong move in King’s Landing, or maybe baby Rickon has fallen ill or – But these thoughts are nothing more than unfounded fears, placed into his head by Pyp, and he tries to forget them.

Ghost is restless at his feet, and Jon knows that his direwolf wants to join his packmate as much as Jon wants to go to Robb. It’s too early still, the noises from the great hall hundreds of feet below, yet Jon can make out the lights of the fires in the windows. They have to wait until the whole Castle has gone quiet, and then, only then, can Jon hope to sneak into Robb’s quarters.

The night is late and the air cold enough that Jon can not feel his fingers even though they are encased in large, warm cloves and are hovering over the flames. He has almost nodded off for a small nap that he can ill afford, when Ghost straightens again at his feet. Fully awake, Jon hears it too, the creak of the lift and the sound of footsteps and paws. Before Jon can stand fully, Grey Wind is at his feet, licking his fingers and rubbing his head against Ghost’s.

And then Robb is there, wrapping him in a hug that feels like summer and youth and Winterfell and everything that Jon has tried so hard and has failed so fully at forgetting. Jon holds tight to his brother’s shoulders and Robb sighs, warm and breathy, in his ear. “Jon.”

Jon laughs and he feels warm for the first time since he got here, despite the night and the chill. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice way to greet your brother.” Robb pulls back, but he is smiling, and he moves over to the fire. “It is cold up here.”

“Winter is coming.” Robb looks at him, and suddenly they’re both laughing, shoulders pressed together and bodies warmer than the fire could ever make them.

Until Robb stops laughing and he looks at Jon. “So it is. And you look ready. Dressed in black.”

Jon blushes. “I took the oath.”

“I heard.”

“And I hear you are doing fine as Lord of Winterfell in our father’s absence.”

Robb blushes, now, and his skin is so much paler than Jon’s that it shows, bright pink high on his cheeks. “I am trying.” Robb looks down, at the fire, as if he cannot meet Jon’s eyes. “It is hard. Listening to bannermen all day, worried about coin and doing it all myself.”

“Surely Lady Catelyn is helping where she can.”

Robb shakes his head. “My Lady Mother road South, to King’s Landing. Before Bran woke.”

“South?” Jon looks at him. “Why?”

Robb sighs. “Father and Mother believe that Bran did not fall from that tower.”

Jon stands and Ghost jumps up from where he has been huddled with Grey Wind. Grey Wind howls where Ghost will not and Robb hushes him and pulls Jon down. “We cannot make too much noise. I am supposed to be asleep in my chambers.”

Jon wants to laugh, smile, something at the memories of old, but Bran was _hurt_ and he wants to _hurt_ something in return, even if it is his own fist against the ice Wall. “Bran-” His voice is thin and raspy and he coughs.

Robb sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “I know, I know. But what are we to do? Mother has ridden to King’s Landing with the evidence. There is nothing more we can do.”

Jon swallows, watching Robb’s hands on his neck, and his mouth goes dry. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

Jon smiles. “Yeah.” He almost leans forward, almost, but he settles for placing a hand in Ghost’s fur. “Why are you here?” He asks, again.

Robb raises his head, glancing out, over the Wall. “Maester Luwin suggested that I need to learn my country, my people, and I suggested that, as I am the Lord of the North and the Wall is at the edge of my territory, it might be prudent if I knew what it was like. And what was beyond it.”

Jon shivers, following Robb’s gaze out over the edge. “There are strange rumors. Uncle Benjen’s been missing for months. There are strange noises at night, and that deserter that Father killed all those months ago?” Robb nods. “He was talking about walkers and children and dead things living again, and he’s not the only one.”

Robb shivers, too, and presses closer to Jon. “You are not safe here.”

“Neither are you.” It’s not something Jon has allowed himself to think about. But, as long as Robb is Lord of Winterfell, he is what is standing between any power-hungry lord and the North, and if these rumors about Bran and Jon Arryn are true, well, no high-born son seems to Jon to be very safe at the moment.

“Bran misses you.” Robb whispers, low and close to his ear, and Jon looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Winterfell is so quiet, without you and the girls, and without Bran running around. The wolves howl, and that is the only noise, at nights and in the early mornings, when we used to-” He trails off and Jon kisses him.

When he pulls back, they are both flushed and breathless and Robb is struggling to breath in the icy air. “Is Bran the only one that misses me?”

Robb looks down, refusing to look up even when Jon asks him to. He sighs, deeply, his voice small and tired and worn and he sounds much less the Lord of Winterfell and much more Jon’s brother. “No, of course not. But-” Robb bites his lip. “You seemed happy, in the hall just now. You have a place here.” Jon nods. “And brothers.” Robb’s voice breaks, in something like sadness or jealousy and Jon’s never heard these things from his brother before and Jon doesn’t know what to say. So he looks at Robb and he doesn’t say anything and Robb wipes furiously at his eyes as he makes to stand. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, Robb-” Jon’s hand flies out to catch his wrist, pulling him back down. Grey Wind, who had started growling, settles down next to the fire, his nose in Ghost’s fur. Jon doesn’t release Robb. “The men, at dinner tonight – Sam and Pyp and Grenn – they have been good to me. They have made me feel welcome in a place without much hospitality. And when I took that oath, I took them as my brothers.” Robb tires to pull away, but Jon tightens his fingers. He has grown strong in his months on the Wall. “But, Robb, my love, you will always be more than my brother. That will never change.”

Robb’s shoulders relax and he glances sideways, his eyes damp and stark blue. “I’m sorry, Jon. Forgive me? It has been a long few months.”

“Always,” Jon whispers, leaning forward to kiss him again. He doesn’t pull away this time, slipping a hand under Robb’s furs and feeling along his leather tunic. Robb’s body feels stronger, more controlled under Jon’s fingers, but when Jon pulls aside the cloth at his neck and kisses there, Robb moans and melts against him, just like always.

Their breath makes little puffs of white in the air as they breath against each other. They have to relearn their bodies, months of celibacy combining with months of training, and Jon fumbles, unsure as he was when they were ten years old and doing this under the blankets in their bed at Winterfell, whispering and giddy, afraid of waking Father or Old Nan. That isn’t a problem up here; nothing to fear but walkers and Alliser Thorne, but Jon trusts Ghost and Grey Wind to keep watch.

Robb must be as nervous as he is, because Robb’s fingers are shaking as they slip under Jon’s clothes, his hands cold and clammy and Jon hisses. Robb kisses him, “sorry,” before continuing to touch, feel, and suddenly Robb’s hands are too hot and Jon whimpers into his mouth, rolling them into the snow until he’s on top of Robb, pressing down with his hips and, “yes, Robb, so long.”

“Miss you,” Robb whispers back, between kisses and arching his hips and his body feels good, all muscle and leather and Jon spreads his furs as close around them as he can. He brings his right hand to his mouth, blowing on it ‘til it’s pleasantly warm, before dropping it to Robb’s trousers and undoing them slowly. Even in the little cocoon of warmth that Jon has created, he doesn’t dare do more than pull Robb’s dick into the cold, no matter how much he would like to see Robb naked and gleaming below him.

“Gods, Jon,” Robb whispers, and Jon suddenly doesn’t care that they’re not naked. Because it has been months and Robb is beautiful and he feels wonderful and Jon fumbles with his own britches. His dick tumbles out of his clothes and he grasps them both, tight and sweaty in his fist and Robb arches his back off the ground, pushing into Jon’s chest and pressing their mouths together.

Jon’s lips ache as he kisses back, trying to convey everything he needs to in the too short time it’s going to take him to finish. He doesn't know how long it’ll be before they can be here again, not with Jon traveling North of the Wall and Robb with his duties, but Jon doesn’t let himself think of that. Doesn’t let himself think about anything except the feel of Robb’s dick in his hand, the warmth of Robb’s lips against his own, and the bright blue of his eyes, pleading and begging with him.

Jon smiles, flipping his wrist, and Robb groans, coming hot and wet between them. Two more strokes and Jon follows, shouting out Robb’s name much louder than he should, collapsing on top of him and kissing him, slow and gentle now that the urgency is tempered.

“So much for celibacy,” Jon whispers and Robb laughs, his chest rolling under Jon’s and Jon grins.

Robb shakes his head. “I don’t think this is what they meant when the first of the Night’s Watch wrote the oath.”

Jon presses onto his elbows, looking down at Robb, his auburn hair flecked in snow and ice, cheeks wind swept, mouth wet and bruised and grinning. Looking at Robb now, Jon can’t help but think that loving Robb is exactly the kind of dangerous distraction Uncle Benjen warned him about. But Jon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything more than kiss Robb on the forehead, ‘cause loving him is the best thing that Jon has ever done and nothing, not Winterfell, not the King, not walkers or the Night’s Watch, can convince him otherwise.


End file.
